Hail to the Thief
by Weird Fishes
Summary: Caroline lives the life of a faceless Gotham citizen until a chance meeting has things going decidedly south. JokerOC. Follows TDK timeline. Rating subject to change. T-M.
1. The Lukewarm

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

--

Chapter 1. "2 plus 2 equals 5 (The Lukewarm)".

_"It's the devil's way now,  
There is no way out.  
You can scream and you  
can shout,  
It is too late now.  
Because_

_You have not been  
paying attention."_

I am, informally, Caroline Burke.

There is nothing more profoundly disheartening than the recollection of childhood dreams. When I was young, I—much like other children my age I'm sure—wanted to be a whole slew of different and impossible things. I longed to be an astronaut, a fairy princess, a sea captain. I wanted to be Sailor Moon and I was absolutely desperate to be a famous artist. Each scenario played out rather expectedly. And unfortunately, for it always came as a blow to the spirit. I was never good enough at math or science to float out among the stars or to gaze up at them from the sea. Nor was it any more likely that I could somehow become an illustrated character or rule a nonexistent realm full of tiny, winged people. I was also, and still am, a terrible artist. So much so that even my adolescent attempts at abstract sculptures made my teacher wince behind his delicately veined hands. We come to regard these rites of passage as the beginnings of a lifetime of cataloged disappointments. Mark my words, they shan't be the last. Or the least.

In the present, at the age of twenty-three, I am a waitress. And a full-time student. These things just sort of write themselves, don't they?

I am not a lifetime resident of Gotham City. I came here for school after I'd graduated at eighteen. And god, wasn't that a fantastic choice. Because going to the rinky-dink college upstate would totally have left about twenty years on my lifespan, whereas Gotham has undoubtedly sucked them away. At first I'd thought it was bumpkin-snobbery. I'd never even been downstate until I moved here for school. Oh, and boy, was I ever in for a surprise. This place, this entire city, is rot. And it's still rotting. But I've got a bit of optimism in me yet. I can still find that elusive silver lining. We do happen to have this absolutely hilarious mascot. He calls himself "Batman", and he dresses the part. The truly unfortunate thing is that we, the people of Gotham, actually need him. This, mind you, is coming from someone who has suspicions that the Italian restaurant where they work the dinner rush is actually a front for the mob. How very 1930's Hollywood noir of me.

But really. Who am I kidding? Salvatore Maroni eats there every night. He probably owns the place. It's a fucking mob joint. And right now I'm on a bicycle, high-tailing it through the rain-slick streets of Gotham, trying to get to work with enough time to cool off and get changed before I have to bust my ass on the floor. My American Lit. class got canceled today, which gives me plenty of time to cover Bonnie's mid-afternoon shift and make some much needed extra cash. So I pick up the speed—which is hardly advisable—and continue my serpent's weave through traffic. The humidity and the rain still sprinkling through in patches makes my clothes stick like a second skin, and I can't help but be thankful that I've got my work uniform in my backpack. Tied back at the nape of my neck, my long brown hair whips about chaotically in the wind.

I arrive at the restaurant with a little time to spare, and haul my bike in through the back door. Tony, the manager, took pity on me when he saw me pull up on it my first day. When he opened the door and looked down at me, winded and eager, trying to chain my bike up to some piping in the alley, the poor bastard just shook his balding head and told me, in that wise-guy, city accent of his, "Look doll, if you do that you'll never see that thing again. The bums and junkies'll strip it down and take the lock too." Provided that I don't track in anything, he lets me store it in the employee bathroom. His occasionally fatherly attitude almost makes up for the fact that he's a colossal douche-bag. Almost.

The employee bathroom at _La Dolce Vita_ (that is it's name, I shit you not) is about the size of a hall closet. Leaning my bike up against the toilet that hasn't worked longer than I've been alive, I wring myself out and start trying to make myself look presentable. This involves a bit of half-assed drying with paper towels, a lot of brushing, and the classic white-button-down-blouse, black-dress-pants and a-black-apron ensemble, the standard waitress attire of the Western world. I apply a bit of powder to cover some of my worn appearance, brushing it over my still-red cheeks, over the small and likely precancerous dusting of freckles and under the bangs on my forehead. Dull blue irises reflect off the dusty mirror surface. I haven't even started my shift yet and I want my cigarette break. But I could have it worse. Much, much worse. Pulling my hair back and up into a haphazard bun, I smooth myself out. I stash my backpack beside my bicycle, and head out onto the floor.

The great thing about _La Dolce Vita _is that nearly all of the people who come here are regulars. The elderly gentleman enjoying a plate of manicotti in booth six, for example, has eaten his supper here every day for the last god-knows-how-long. I've seen him here every shift since my first, save the week or two he was laid up after heart surgery last summer. There's not a lot of new blood in here customer-wise. Or server-wise, for that matter. Other than the buss-boys, I'm the only person working here under the age of thirty-five. This is both heartening and mildly depressing, because all of the other servers here are lifers and the last thing I usually want to do is work another fucking night in this hole. But really, when the money's good, and some of the old folks and the wise guys take a shine to you, you can't really say no. I'd be hard-pressed to find myself another job while I'm in school that gives me good money to take home each night and decently flexible hours.

All right, one that _doesn't_ involve me spreading my legs on a mattress in a cheap hotel in the Narrows.

The place is sparse. Uncharacteristically quite compared to the dinner-time din. I occupy myself by doing the rounds on the tables, making sure the salt and pepper and place settings are all good to go. I refill the elderly gentleman's water. Eventually I retreat to the little side station by the kitchen, fixing myself a cup of coffee while I polish some silverware for the dinner rush that's two hours in coming. I've been up since five and I can feel the weight of my eyelids. Tony comes back from behind the wall that separates the front of the restaurant from the seating area and the bar in the back and catches sight of me. He approaches with a dour expression carved into the lines around his mouth. I do my best to, at the very least, appear pleased to see him. "Good afternoon. Business go well this morning?"

Tony pours a cup of coffee for himself, appears to think twice, and dumps it out. He's a large man, broad in his stature with a mightily protruding stomach. He takes a napkin off the shelf, wipes his forehead and throws it into the garbage can. "Bonnie send you to cover her shift, Caroline?"

I take a sip of my coffee and continue to polish. "She did. I was the only person who could come in.. Christie and Janice were both unavailable, and Angela's visiting her brother in the hospital. It's not a big deal. Class was canceled this afternoon, anyway."

"Huh." I glance up at Tony neutrally, trying to read into him. He's always got a bit of a scowl going on, and it's definitely there right now. Tony is, for all intents and purposes, a very intimidating guy. "That's funny. I told her this morning that she didn't have to send anybody in. Sal's renting the place out for a few hours. The last guy we've got here before we close up shop 'til five is old man Verillini."

This might seem out of the ordinary were it not so frequent an occurrence. None of us are stupid, and we'd all learned better than to question whatever arrangement Tony and Maroni have going on. "Oh. I guess she must have called while I was in class," I said, after a moment, putting the silverware away. "I'd forgotten to take it off silent. Should I just book-it for a little while and come back later?"

His massive shoulders shrugged. "Finish takin' care of Verillini and then go to a coffee place for a while or somethin' an' study. Maybe all of that reading'll get you to stop stealin' my coffee."

I rolled my eyes. The fucking attitude this guy gave at the slightest amount of pressure was ridiculous. "Yeah yeah, I know. Thanks Tony."

It wasn't ten minutes later that I heard the front door chime. A dirty plate in hand, on my way back to the kitchen, I quickly ducked into the side station and deposited it into a bin half-filled with food-crusted platters and bowls. Verillini's bill in hand, I strode toward the front. "Good afternoon. I'm terribly sorry, but due to maintenance the restaurant will be closed until five o'clock this-"

A group of men appeared from behind the wall. I paused my gait, looking to the man in pin-stripe. Salvatore Maroni held up a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. "I'm well aware, tootsie. Thanks." I barely received a bemused glance as they strode back through the doors that led to the kitchen. I glared at their backs as they walked through, slighted at the way I'd been spoken to, as though I were a child. Or an underling. With a curse on my breath, I put on a pleasant face and delivered old man Verillini his bill.

Cleaning up after him was a breeze. I bussed the table and when the second group of men came in, all of them more irritable-looking than Tony's mood had been earlier, grabbed my backpack and exited through the side door. While curiosity was certainly a viable element, none of the men in the last group were men I'd ever seen before. And they'd all looked pissed. Whatever they were talking about in the kitchen appeared to have crossed the gang divide, and the knowledge of this made me distinctly uncomfortable. It was weighty, dangerous stuff. Setting my backpack up on the lid of a trash can, I stood under the eaves of the building and lit myself a cigarette, watching water trickle out of the gutter onto the dirty pavement beneath my feet. The day remained unremarkable and overcast.

One can lose themselves utterly in a myriad of thoughts and notions while smoking, and not be at all bothered by time slowly tick-tick-ticking by. I'd decided against getting a cup of coffee down the street and opted instead to leaning back against the brick wall of the building. In essence, I'd chosen the option that involved the least amount of physical activity in favor of saving my strength. I had some reading I could catch up on for my Lit. class while I was out here, and I wasn't about to let that time go to waste. I was on my fourth or fifth cigarette, luxuriating in the fact that I didn't have to finish them all in one drag, when it happened. I was nearly done with Faulkner's "Barn Burning". I was musing over just how satisfying the character development was, when the door to my right burst open, nearly catching me full in the face. I startled and promptly dropped my textbook onto the sodden pavement.

This is a surefire way you can tell someone's a real tried and true, broke student. The immediate realization that I would not be able to re-sell this book back to the campus book store—now that it had taken a proverbial dip in the pond—was nearly all-consuming. My face fell as I scrambled to lift it out of the filthy water, my brain dutifully calculating the cost of the book itself; three nights worth of tips and a week of living on nothing but packaged ramen noodles. All of it now null and void. To my right, I heard someone let loose a low chuckle in the open doorway. Bent over, I froze.

"Hee _hee._ Ho. Ha ho. _Ha._ _Haa."_

I lost it. "You asshole. Do you have any idea how much this textbook cost? I can't afford to-" The words, quick to burn, turned to ash in my mouth as the figure stepped out of the doorway and stood beside me in the dreary mid-afternoon light. Cigarette still burning between my fingers, my other hand reaching out for the book, I kneeled as Judgment personified, unbalanced and irreparably swayed. This wasn't one of the men I had seen earlier in the restaurant. There was something tangibly off-kilter about him, something that raised my hackles. Anyone with eyes—or, noting that laugh, anyone without them as well—might have agreed. Swaddled in a rich plum, he wore a child's crude version of war paint. It might have been innocent were it not for the obviously sinister overtones, the blackened eyes. Mouth curved up in a perpetual smile, bloody and fresh. Wrong. All of it. The eyes that burned down upon me from on high. The argyle of his socks. The faded green tinge to his greasy hair. A grin of cruel scar tissue. Abruptly, he kneeled down next to me.

"You plan on picking that _up-_uh?" I spared a glance at him, tying in vain not to belay my discomfort. Eyebrows slightly raised, lips pursed, he watched me expectantly. I raised an eyebrow in return—par for the course—and reached for the book again, frowning at the weight of the saturated paper. Every muscle in my body wailed at his presence. I begged them to be quiet, if only for a moment longer. Ignoring the different bells and whistles my brain sounded in alarm, I put my cigarette between my lips and closed the book with both hands. The movement seemed slow, pantomimed, much as one acts in front of a snarling, spitting beast. I exhaled smoke.

He rocked once on his heels. Something—no, some_things_—clanked and clinked in his coat. My heart ran crazed circles within its bony confines. A pink tongue flicked out to run over his lips. _"So, _do you-uh, _always_ stand here. _Read_ing."

I'd spent nearly every night for the last two and a half years feeding mobsters. Granted, I hadn't really dwelled on that fact too often, but I had certainly grown up a lot since I'd first come to Gotham. My skin had toughened pretty considerably. But this guy had it damn near crawling off my bones. "Sometimes. On my breaks, or if I get here early." I answered, pulling the cigarette out from between my lips and flicking it off down the alley.

"Ah. Aha-ha. How very scholas-_tick_-uh." He was studying me, I could feel it.. The creepy bastard was looking me over like I was a specimen strapped down to a table, well within reach of a scalpel. With that realization went the rest of my reserve. My muscles won and I stood abruptly. It didn't matter if I had to run around to the front of the restaurant so long as I got away from this guy. Now. The mounting unease was unbearable.

"Well, it sure was nice meeting you, but I really should get back-"

He held up a hand, like Maroni had earlier, though there was nothing dismissive about it. It was a command. I froze. "Hold on a secon-duh now, _sweetie._ No one's going to be cook-ing _a-nee-thing_ in that kitchen _un-til_ they clean it up. A bit." He smiled at me like he was doing his Martha Stewart best. I gripped my literature book with white knuckles trying to keep myself still. "Tell me, _doll._ You-uh, got a name?"

I am, formally—and perhaps soon-to-be formerly—Caroline Burke.

"Caroline." Hesitation wasn't an option here. Muscle memory kicked in and my body went on auto pilot. I stuck out my hand like I was a goddamn Cub Scout getting a medal from the Mayor. He looked down at it for a moment before swiveling his eyes back up to mine. For a moment, neither of us did anything. We just stared. Then his face split open across the middle and he laughed. He cackled and he choked. I'd never heard a more unsettling sound in my life. It was so primal, so unnervingly animal to the core that I failed to suppress the chill that skittered up the length of my spine. As if cued from offstage, he stopped. I looked down to the watch-chain at his hip but a moment before I cleared my throat.

He breathed deep, inhaling my apprehension. "_Caaar-_o-line." He clasped my hand and shook it eagerly, jarring me. "Well. It is, ha, _really_ nice to meet such a sweet gal like-uh, yourself. Hold on a minute, I-uh have something. Ha. For _you."_ As he began to pat his pockets I began to calm. Perhaps he was just a little disturbed. One of those special sorts they have homes set up for. One of the unfortunates. What he might have been doing crashing a gang meeting was utterly beyond me, but perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I was just being paranoid about this whole ridiculous situation.

My suspicions were confirmed when I noticed satisfaction light up his face. His hand returned from his trouser pocket grasping a dog-eared playing card. "Here. _This—"_ he licked his lips again "—is my card if you need-uh to ge_-t_ in touch." He winked exaggeratedly, pressing the laminated paper into my palm. Relief washed over me, and I smiled at him genuinely. The man was probably border-line retarded. It was the least I could do.

"Thanks, that's awfully kind of you. I really appreciate it."

His rictus grin turned and, for one awkward moment, I thought that perhaps I might have been mistaken. Something within him seemed to have been decided the instant I spoke. Cogs churned into place. It flickered briefly and faded. He patted my cheek, a leathered finger-tip tracing down to the corner of my mouth. I swallowed.

"_Call_ me sometime." He giggled again, setting off down the alley without waiting for a response. His leather shoes splashed through puddles. When he'd disappeared round the corner and out of sight I slumped against the brick at my back, my textbook forgotten on the trashcan lid beside my school bag. The experience, however frivolous, had exhausted me. As an afterthought, I peered down at the card he had given me. The jester emblazoned at its center drew little comment from me, save for a slow shake of the head. He—whoever _he_ was—was obviously insane. He likely escaped from Arkham after the whole Scarecrow debacle. I took another cigarette out of my pack and stuffed the playing card into my pocket.

"Caroline? Caroline?!" I nearly inhaled the unlit cigarette, leaping a good two feet off the pavement. Tony's voice bellowed out from the side entrance and I cursed, poking my head in through the open doorway.

"Jesus Tony, don't yell like that. Are we back on?"

Tony hauled over to the door and yanked me back inside. I barely had the wherewithal to grab my things before he slammed the door closed. We stood close in the small side station, surrounded by cutlery and spare glasses. His face appeared drawn, the lines more pronounced in the glare of the cash register light. A pallor had settled upon his cheeks. "I thought I told you to get a cuppa' coffee. What the hell were you doin' out there?"

I looked up at him. "Smoking. Studying. I didn't feel like spending the money on coffee today. What's the matter?"

"It's dangerous outside. You know better than to mope around out there." Tony studied me for a moment. "You didn't see anyone takin' out the trash, did you?"

This entire fucking day deserved raised eyebrow after raised eyebrow. "Tony, what the hell are you talking about?" I thought for a moment, reconsidering. "You don't mean the guy with the clown make-up, do you?"

There was a moment of tense silence. Tony ran a meaty paw down his face and sighed. "Yeah, sure. Him too. Get yourself back out on the floor, kid. We've got the dinner rush in an hour."

As Tony moves out into the dining room I cannot help but feel as though something irreparable has occurred within the span of that single afternoon. The atmosphere here is changed, charged with the remnants of something explosive. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Suddenly, I don't want to know what's bringing Tony down, what's got him so spooked. Unconsciously, I bring my hand to my face, lightly tracing a line from my cheek to the corner of my mouth. It takes me a moment to realize what I'm doing, and I stop myself with a shudder. Giving myself a quick once-over in the warped metal of the paper towel dispenser, I brush the bangs off of my face and step out into the seating area. Left alone, I begin to entertain a cornucopia of disquieting thoughts. And I am thankful that we are empty yet, though I know we shan't be for long. Outside, the city of Gotham moves to its own shambling, damaged accord.

--

A/N: Reviews/feedback are more than appreciated. Thanks for reading, I'll try and get the next bit up ASAP.


	2. Snakes and Ladders

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing ever remotely affiliated with the rights of Batman. Yeehaw.

--

Chapter 2. "Sit Down. Stand Up. (Snakes and Ladders)."

"_We can wipe you out anytime (sit down, stand up).  
We can wipe you out (sit down, stand up).  
Anytime.  
Anytime._

_Stand up, sit down."_

It is with no small amount of chagrin that, despite not being a morning person in the least, I awaken at six o'clock every day. When my alarm goes off it is nearly always still dark outside. Never pitch black, but just dark enough to be slightly disorienting. People have a lot of quirks and more than a few irrational fears of varying degrees. One of mine is sleeping through the entire day, of waking up during the twilight hours the next night and wondering just what the hell happened. Wondering where I am. I've tried to link this to a few things in order to explain it—and thusly come to terms with it—several times to little avail.

The first explanation would be that sleeping through the day would mean that I had not only missed classes, but that I'd also be late to work. Very late. And without working there is no way I could ever afford to keep going to school. I'm a year away from graduation. And even with the financial aid I receive on behalf of the federal government, I just barely get by. It's very by-the-skin-of-my-teeth. I live in a shitty studio apartment in a sketchy building across town to save costs on tuition and end up paying nearly the same amount regardless. And not going to classes means that my student aid gets dropped. Needless to say, I'm quite adamant about maintaining my schedule.

The second explanation would be that there is a distinct possibility that I'm anal retentive. I could very well have this hidden need to keep everything going strictly according to plan. It's got a bit of merit, I suppose. Missing out on my daily routine wouldn't just be a huge inconvenience, it would be a break in the mantra. And there wouldn't be much of a place for that under such rigid discipline.

The third, and final, explanation is that I'm fucking ridiculous. That everyone has some nonsense that throws them into an anxious fit. That it's a natural, albeit silly, expression of the subconscious in our everyday lives.

Whatever the reason, when I awaken two hours late at eight o'clock in the morning, with a grand total of thirty minutes until my first class begins, I flip. I curse, I throw off the blankets. I run into my cubicle-sized bathroom and I don't even have the time to let the water warm up. And after my heinously cold shower, I throw on the nearest clothes I can find, nondescript blue jeans, a tank top and a black sweater for good measure, and I run out the door. I have to run back inside for 

my backpack and my bicycle. That's how scatterbrained I am. We all have our routines, and interrupting them equates to little in the way of good.

So I'm sure you can only imagine just how hard it hits me when I finally get on campus at Gotham State University an exhausting twenty minutes later, with barely enough time to lock up my bike and get to class, and I look at the newspaper stands bolted in beside the bike racks. You see, it's been a good five or six days since my bogus afternoon shift at _La Dolce Vita._ At this stage in the game, I've written the entire day off as just another example of the series of misadventures my life has become since I moved to this godforsaken city. Water under the bridge, dust off my shoulder, etc. And I'd been in such a rush to get here, I rode my ass off. I'm covered in sweat. I almost got hit four or five times. I was utterly convinced that I would be able to make my Multicultural Psychology class. Now that I've seen the front page of _The Gotham Times_, however, it's obvious that I won't. That I can't.

I don't even think. I rummage some change out of my pocket and slip the obligatory fifty cents into the slot. I open the dispenser mechanically. My eyes never leave the front page. The words have yet to broach my mind; they're just blurred distractions surrounding the photograph at its center. Static on the proverbial airwaves.

It's him. The nut from the alley. The quality of the picture is grainy, a close-up shot of his face, but you can tell it's him. No one else looks like that, not even in Gotham. It looks almost as though it were taken with someone's camera phone or an out of date home video recording device. This does not detach from the impact of it. It only enhances the atmosphere. Frozen, the laugh on his face is nothing short of feral. Finally I glance down at the words below the photograph, my breath held still and fast in my lungs despite my winded state. _"A man known only as the Joker terrorized downtown Gotham yesterday afternoon..."_ My eyes roam over the text. And oh, it's bad. It's really, really bad; the torture and death of a Batman impostor, his delivery to the Mayor's office and the video that showcased it all. The threat of continued violence should the real Batman fail to come forth. I just stand there, looking down at the paper in stunned disbelief.

My judge of character must be completely fucked. I cannot believe that I thought this man was fucking retarded.

I tear my eyes away from the _Times_ for a moment, looking around me jerkily. There is a level of sudden exposure one feels when they read something like this in a public place. It's as though whatever anonymity I'd had mere seconds ago has been completely eclipsed by my sudden and horrified reaction. For a moment, I'm not quite certain what to do, save glance about me wildly. To visually secure a perimeter. I met this motherfucker. We chatted in the alley next to my _job._ I have a warped, muddy textbook—much obliged—because of this man. Oh, hindsight. Now I know that a hundred and twenty six dollars was a small price to pay. I could be like this guy, this Brian, mutilated, made-up and strung-up outside the windows of public servants and elected officials. Literally all dressed-up with nowhere to go ever again. I look around me for the umpteenth time. Sweet christ, I'm actually beginning to freak out next to the Human Sciences building.

There is absolutely no way I can attend a lecture and a class discussion like this. I need to get out of here, to take some time and calm myself before work tonight. A clear head is imperative, noting my clientele. Grabbing my bicycle again, I hop on and take off down the busy streets. I'm not really paying attention to where I'm going at this point; I ride as fast as I can, manically and without direction. The newspaper stuffed into my backpack weighs more than it should. I can't stop considering all of the horrible scenarios. This man, The Joker. He knows where I work. Good god, the fact that he even knows what I look like, the fact that we've even spoke appalls me.

After pedaling for a good twenty minutes longer I finally stop off somewhere in mid-town. My throat burns and my shirt sticks to me where my backpack presses against it. Breathing heavily, I chain my bike up to a parking meter and make my way into a nearby café. Tony was right; I should have just grabbed a cup of fucking coffee that day.

While I wait at the counter for my latte and bagel, my breathing begins to slow. I begin to relax. The atmosphere within the small shop is cozy and welcoming, over-stuffed chairs and warm, cheerful light. It's a little clichéd in the intellectual sense, though ultimately comforting. I make my way over to a small love seat and take a sip of my drink. There are a few things that I have to consider at the moment, panicking aside. Unlike his last—likely his latest, actually. There's no way that bastard is a rookie—victim, I have absolutely no reason whatsoever to be of any relevance to the Joker. None. I'm a waitress in an Italian restaurant. Not a single part of me factors into the grand scheme of things insofar as Gotham's hierarchy and vigilante heroes are concerned. In short, I'm a nobody. I am faceless.

Rationality having been momentarily restored, I take a bite of my bagel. It's moments like this that truly give perspective, where one sinks within oneself and is able to find some semblance of completion for a window of time. Unconsciously, I touch the corner of my mouth and my moment of peace unravels. I take a sip of my warm drink, hoping to soothe away the ball of tension that has knotted itself tightly within my stomach. The futility of the gesture alarms me.

I feel like a child terrified of their own closet. And, moreover, I am ashamed for feeling so. I am not seven years old. There is no monster lurking between neatly hung dresses and boxes of toys. Yet this notion of a restless disquiet, of dangerous forces outside my control brewing off in the distance, is comparable to that of a creeping ghoul waiting to snatch me up the moment I turn off my bedside lamp.

The real question is; how long can I stand it before I start screaming for my parents?

Inside the café I munch on my bagel. I sip my coffee. I stew and I wait. All the while, the newspaper coiled in my backpack peels back its lips and gnashes its teeth.

--

A/N: A bit of a short chapter, I know. Their lengths will undoubtedly vary as the story goes on. Reviews and feedback are still much appreciated, and I will love you to pieces for them (therein lies the inscentive, one might hope).


	3. Brush the Cobwebs out of the Sky

Disclaimer- I own absolutely nothing relating to DC Comics/Warner Brothers.

--

Chapter 3- "Sail to the Moon (Brush the Cobwebs from the Sky)."

"_I sucked the moon  
I spoke too soon  
And how much did it cost?  
I was dropped from moonbeams  
And sailed on shooting stars."_

I'm beginning to think that I have a problem. A bit of a nervous tick, if you will. I've taken to pacing the creaking floorboards of my small apartment regularly and buying the newspaper in between classes. The morning and evening editions. I'd say that I read it in my spare time, but that wouldn't be entirely true, noting the lack thereof. I usually end up skimming the front page for any mention of—

Well, you know who I'm talking about.

I've been at this for a grand total of two days, but even Tony's noticed something isn't right. Not that he hasn't been a little unhinged since half our customers were arrested earlier in the week. I haven't gone out for a cigarette break at work in over a week. When he pulled me aside after the dinner rush yesterday, I told him I was trying to quit. Because I'd rather lie to my boss than admit out loud that I'm afraid of some random and _completely_ nonthreatening guy that I met. Oh, goodness I'm funny. The situation is so ridiculous it makes me want to wretch. If anything, I smoke more than I used to. Granted, it's only been a few days. Perhaps the hysteria will die down. One can hope.

I look over to the far corner of my room, to the bed half-hidden away by my small kitchenette. The sheets are tangled and sweat-stained. They wreak of my newfound paranoia. Beneath my pillow, within quick reach and out of sight, lurks cold steel, a blade just smaller than the length of my hand. It's there for the same reasons that suburban families buy a gun after the house down the street has been burglarized. My eyes move past the window and the oak dresser to my little writing desk, its smooth veneer covered with papers. This particular disorder is not so unnatural. There is organization within this chaos, the stacked piles of bills and class notes framing a bulky computer monitor. Tacked up to the bare wall beside it is a calendar. And beside that a lone playing card. A calling card.

There, pinned to the wall like a butterfly under glass, lies the reaffirmation of all of my fears. It is the reason I've not slept more than three hours in the last two nights. It is the cause of my having purchased a new pack of cigarettes after only three days. That seemingly innocuous card, the jester in its mock subservient little bow. That is the reason I am damn near at the edge of a psychotic breakdown.

They found one of those on the dead Batman fan-boy hanging up outside the mayor's office. They've also found it on two other victims within the last two days, according to _The Gotham Times._ Much like the aforementioned, I too was given a card. Hilariously enough, I'd initially thought there was a phone number scrawled on it somewhere. He—you know exactly who I'm talking about—had given it to me outside _La Dolce Vita._ Told me to give him a call sometime. And while I hadn't any intentions of doing so, curiosity had won me over that first night. When I'd found nothing, I'd tossed it on my desk, writing it off as the unsound ravings of a random street person. I can't even begin to tell you how badly I wish that I'd been right.

Right now it is a quarter to four o'clock in the morning. I got home from work a little less than five hours ago. It was a slow night, Tony cut me early. He told me to go home and do something about the dark circles I've been cultivating. On my ride back, I bought some concealer for the first time since I was sixteen. He doesn't understand my predicament, my horribly botched position; I would sleep forever if I could right now. I'm dying to catch more than an hour or so. But I'm so terrified that I'll never wake up again that I couldn't even if I tried. And believe you me, I have.

Three stories below me someone walks by laughing on their cell phone and I freeze mid-step next to the refrigerator. This is so fucking sad.

Earlier today, during that little window of time that I have between school and carting around linguini dishes at _La Dolce Vita, _I had myself a good, long think about my situation. The Caroline that I was before all of last week's nonsense seems to be diminishing by the hour, trickling away little by little after every cup of coffee and every other cigarette. This was while I was riding through afternoon traffic, mind you. And as I was riding, a police car sped past. I swear, it was like a goddamn light bulb went off over my head. Gotham's finest; how could I have not thought of it sooner? As a normal, tax-paying citizen, I should be top-priority. Theoretically so, at least.

My cell phone sits on the minuscule counter top that runs between the stove and the sink. I haven't dialed the cops yet, and despite my short lived elation earlier on in the day, I don't think I will. While the idea of having the protectors of the peace do their job insofar as I'm concerned is quite relieving, the idea of what will happen once the details start coming out is not. This is what happens to you when you take a shady job in a city currently obsessed with cleaning up its streets. This is what happens when you work at a restaurant fronted by the mob when you have a District Attorney like Harvey Dent. If I went to the police and told them what happened, told them that I too may very well be in danger, they'd tack me on as an accomplice in that heinously big The People of Gotham VS. The Mob case they've got going on right now. I'd get thrown in jail and then I'd probably get bumped-off for in the pen squealing.

I, Caroline Burke, am royally fucked.

How many times can one blame themselves for a situation thrust entirely out of their control? Out of all the people in this city I happened to be in the wrong place at the worst time. And I owe all of this to not having gone out to get some coffee. Fate would deem that it was bound to happen one way or another, that it was destiny, and rational dictates that things simply happen, 

be it for a deeper meaning or otherwise. But I could theorize until the world is nothing but ash and rot. It isn't getting me anywhere. Slumped with weary defeat, I crush out another cigarette in my sink and shamble over to my bed. My head swims and I push the hair out of my eyes. I lay back on the mattress and try to recall something to ease my mind. Something simple, something pure and good. The backs of my eyes become long golden grass and an eternal blue sky. I exhale. When my alarm goes off two hours later, I scream.

Class goes by with little to no event. I spend the entirety of a lecture on Twain's _Letters from the Earth_ looking nervously about and trying not to fall asleep. The part of me that isn't consumed by panic is appalled by my behavior. I look disheveled and strange. It's like some sort of horrifying out-of-body experience. I wish I had the courage to just go to the police, to hell with the consequences. I would give anything to be something above what I am right now. When class ends I file out into the corridor, glimpsing back and forth out of the corners of my eyes in time with each step. When the world opens into half-hearted daylight, I keep up my pace toward the quad as it fills with students during the mid-day hour.

The wind in Gotham is both a nuisance and a soothsayer, depending upon the temperature and season. Today it cheerfully serves as the former, and I wrap my cardigan around me tightly. What would normally be a leisurely stroll across the wide expanse of concrete at Gotham State University becomes a sort of reverse claustrophobia. There's a sense of feeling too visible here, too exposed. I know it's just nerves—and the lack of sleep can't be helping my situation either—but every laugh, every shriek and howl at re-tellings of this weekend's keg parties or dance-hall gossip has my sanity in stitches. The amount of self-control I exert so as not to run to my bicycle is astounding. When I finally reach the bike rack, the relief is nearly overwhelming. Giving in to habit, I walk over to the newspaper stand and buy the morning's paper, which I peruse gluttonously.

I'm lost in Times New Roman for a few blissful minutes. There's no new victim yet, at least not since the morning edition has been printed, so I'll have to wait until my break tonight before I'm fully convinced that I'll live to see another day. Sunshine tears through the gloom in patches for a few moments, dousing the campus in brilliant shocks of light. For a few moments I allow the weight—be it real or exaggerated—to fall from me. I stand there quietly, eyes closed, my black cardigan soaking up the warmth, spreading it through my weary bones, up the length of my arms and down the muscles of my back. The warmth disappears, and through my lids I see the world grow darker once again.

When I open my eyes the quad has thinned out considerably. My fellow students who swarmed out like reptiles to bask in the sun fled with its departure. My brief moment of comfort seems to have vanished with them and I throw my paper out in a nearby trashcan. Despite the chill in the air, I remove my cardigan and stuff it into my backpack. The breeze seems chilly now, but I know how things change after a few minutes of hard riding. Shifting the pack onto my shoulders, I unlock my bicycle and give the area another cursory look. My gaze barely sweeps half the area when I come to a rigid standstill. A tangible wrongness creeps into view out of the shadows.

There's a man standing about seventy feet away from me, down in the center of the courtyard. His dress is nondescript, black cloth pants, a navy-colored sailor's jacket and a matching cap. 

Black shoes. Out of all the people milling around us, the last stragglers rushing off to Chem. Lab. or Statistics, I seem to be the only one worth staring at. It raises suspicions. He can't be much taller than me. Six feet, give or take an inch, but the way he holds himself makes my heart hammer in my chest. There's a ferociously patient air to him that unnerves me beyond all rationality. And it's with this that I squint at his face, trying to commit it to memory, trying to discover why the stare of a stranger has me so irrevocably flustered. It's then that I see the lines on his skin, the indentations on his pale cheeks.

He must notice my reaction, the involuntary widening of the eyes and the parting of the lips. His patience vanishes and he smiles. I don't even have to close my eyes to imagine the face paint, and I don't bother wasting the time. I'm on my bike, pedaling down the street before I have a chance to process my thoughts. I didn't even bother to tie my hair back, it whips around my face as a multitude of Lexus' and BMW's speed by. I'm riding so fast that I'm at my last gear and I'm still not going fast enough.

I make sharp turns without any notice. I speed through side-streets and back-alleys in the hopes of losing him. Should he have followed. Should I not have been imagining the entire ordeal in my ridiculous state of sleep deprivation. I take the long way and arrive at work ten minutes earlier than usual, soaked in sweat and fear. Without skipping a beat, I park myself next to the side door and light-up a cigarette. I need to calm down. There is no way I can go inside and have Tony see me like this, my limbs shaking from exhaustion and terror. I'm a mess. I hold my hand out and watch the muscles tremble a moment before disgustedly letting it fall on my knee. Cigarette dangling from my lips, I run a hand through my knotted hair and keep my ears cocked for the slightest sounds within the alley. I swallow the hysterical tears that threaten to gag and blind. Two cigarettes later, I gradually begin to calm. I inhale and pick myself up off the concrete. Opening the side-entrance, I wheel my bike inside and shut the door fast in its jamb.

The ride home that night is a long one. Business is in a decided slump since Harvey Dent's new anti-mob initiative. While it's beneficial overall, I can't help but feel vaguely depressed at my lack of tips for the evening. It will barely cover my gas bill, and rent is due in two weeks. The notion—and the very real possibility—of going back on the packaged ramen noodles diet is hardly anything to be excited about and the day overall appears to have been a bit of a bust.

Pedaling home, I realize the need I have within myself to take more control of my life, regardless of the situation that's crept upon me like a thief in the night. Day to day living under my present and heinous circumstances have become absolutely impossible. At the rate things are going, I ponder while dismounting and walking into my building, I'll be lucky to remain employed by the month's end. And I'll be even more so if they don't kick me out of school. I have a paper due two days from now on Western Civilization and Colonization within the Modern Age and I haven't even begun the research for it. Walking into the rickety elevator and pushing the button for the third floor, I sigh.

When the door slides open and I walk my bike down the hall at a steady pace. This is all very routine, the fumbling for the keys while trying to properly support a bike without a kick-stand scenario. When I finally manage to get everything steady, I look up at my door and everything stops. The weight in my backpack ceases to be a bother, the fate of my bicycle nonexistent as I let it clatter to the floor. My keys follow a second later, hitting the carpet like broken chimes. I cannot for the life of me believe what I am seeing. The sheer incomprehensibility of it makes me deaf and dumb. The world around me is replaced with a hollow sound reminiscent of the static on an AM radio station after-hours.

Things couldn't possibly get any worse.

And yet here before me lies the promise that, as sure as I'm standing, they most certainly will. My vision blurs as I blink back moisture, and I make a futile attempt to swallow around the prominent lump in my throat. After a few moments, I reach up and pull the playing card from my door jamb. I lift my keys off the floor and I lean my bike up against the wall. My keys jingle-jangle as I fit them into the lock and turn. I hear the metal snap back and know that my sanctity has not been tarnished too thoroughly. With near herculean effort I bring my things inside and close the door. When the lock snaps shut again I slump back against the wood and slide down to the floor. I don't even bother removing my backpack. Inside the dark and gloom of my apartment, I sit illuminated by the light trickling in from the street lamps and stare at the small jester in my hand. I comprehend nothing.

--

A/N: Reviews and feedback are more than appreciated, so feel free to leave some. It really does help. Thanks again for reading; I hope you all enjoyed the latest installment.


	4. Honeymoon is Over

Disclaimer: I own nothing, etc., etc., ad nauseum.

--

Chapter 4. "Backdrifts (Honeymoon is Over)"

"_You fell into our arms,  
You fell into a-_

_We're rotten fruit  
We're damaged goods  
What the hell, we've got nothing more to lose  
One gust and we will probably crumble  
We're backdrifters."_

I concentrate on placing one foot carefully in front of the other. I am deaf to the creaks and moans of my floorboards. I could be imagining things, but I'm pretty sure that the people who live below hate me right now. But things could always be worse. They are worse. Much, much worse than angry neighbors.

It is five o'clock in the morning and I, Caroline, am out of coffee.

As I pass by my desk, I turn a blue-eyed gaze to my computer monitor. Its glow is the only illumination within the room. Long shadows recline, crouched in wait on the wooden floor. They long to trip me. I've emailed all of my teachers and professors telling them that I'm down and out with the flu, and thus unable to attend class for the rest of the week. Today is Tuesday. I'm buying myself quite a lot of time for someone whose life expectancy rate is going through a bit of a Bear Market crisis. I mean, I could theoretically be dead within the hour. I might not live until evening. I might expire before another shift at _La Dolce Vita._ Despite my staggering exhaustion, I begin to pace faster. My fear of sleep, of the unknown, compels me.

The worst part about all of this is that I have absolutely no idea what to do. None. My mind is a clean piece of parchment, a blank document lying open on your desktop. All I can do is look up to the space beside my calendar where two bowing jesters raise their heads to mocking attention. They can't even meet my eyes. There isn't a sound I don't hear, a car horn or a passer-by, that hasn't made me jump. There was a cat fight outside earlier that nearly made me cry, it had me so rattled. I don't know how much longer I can take this. Lighting up another cigarette, I cease my orbit of the room and slump into my tattered computer chair. I've barely opened a window in my browser before I finally succumb to my all-consuming fatigue and slump over the keyboard. I awaken with a start four hours later to an entire Google search for the letter H, repeating on for about seven pages. Stiff and aching, keys indented into my cheek, I drag myself into the shower, brushing the snarls out of my hair as I wait for the warm water to come.

In the dingy, tiled cubicle I let the water beat down on my body from crown to calf. With a majority of the people who live in this building out to work, the water pressure is stronger than I've felt in weeks. I let it pound my muscles like a Swedish masseuse and gently begin to knead shampoo into my scalp. In the sanctity of the humid damp I allow myself to become momentarily side-tracked. When I'd first arrived in Gotham I was eighteen years old, fresh out of high school with an entire skull brimming over with empty ideals and naivety. How quickly things changed. It's been five years and I'm still a year away from my bachelor's degree. I breathe in the muggy, fragrant air and reach for my bar of soap. If I could have afforded to be a full time student those first two years, I would have. Rent never pays for itself, and even this shitty apartment is a far cry above my previous accommodations. My cheeks lost their baby fat sooner than my relatives upstate would have liked that first year, though I've filled out all right since then. Bones mask themselves with flesh once again. An angular softness, if you will. I begin to scrub and lose myself in images of green open fields and valleys.

I stopped wondering what would have happened if I had stayed long ago. Yet recent and harrowing events tend more often than not to bring the past into favorable light. But I've a drive to keep up—rather, I did. I still might.—and I have no intentions of pussing out and skulking back up to the country regardless of just how appealing, or even rational, it may sound.

I turn the water off and reach for a towel. I step outside the shower and images of simpler times fade as the shock of cool air hits my body. The present is a jealous companion. I slip into my undergarments.

Noting the playing card I found in my door last night, staying at the apartment longer than necessary is more dangerous than I'd like to admit, much less consider. It would behoove me to get out for the rest of the day, to find something to do with myself until work tonight. Unfortunately, there are some things a sick-note won't assuage, and Tony is one of them. I haven't taken a day off in over a year, though my schedule allows me at least one or two nights a week, for homework's sake. He'd kill me if I called out for the rest of the week. Taking a white button-down shirt off a hanger, I fold it carefully and place it within a plastic shopping bag, where it joins a black apron and a pair of dress pants. It takes me only a few moments to throw on some clothes, a pair of worn gray jeans and black wife beater. The cardigan goes into the shopping bag, which in turn is placed into my backpack. We all have our own uniforms to which we subscribe, and mine is based upon the convenience of travel.

Hair is brushed quickly, pulled back in elastic and left to its own devices. I give my apartment a brief once-over, checking to be sure I've not left any lights on. I grab a granola bar from the counter in the kitchenette and wheel my bicycle to the door. It's best not to look on this as though it may be the last time I ever see my home again. I can play up stoicism just as well as the next. As an afterthought, I pull the playing cards down from the wall and shove them into my back pocket. I open the door and peer cautiously out into the hall.

When I make it outside my senses are on double-time. My eyes are everywhere, my ears strain to catch everything. Even my nose is sniffing around for something strange, something to justify my fear. Nothing appears out of the ordinary, not even Gotham's homeless population seems to be in jubilant spirits today. Mounting my bike, I ride off down the hill toward uncertainty.

Thirty minutes later, my destination surprises even me. _Especially _me. I look up at the front of the Gotham Police Department and suck air into my oxygen-starved lungs. I run a hand through my sweaty bangs and quickly comb them into place with my fingers. This could possibly be the worst idea I've ever had. Walking my bike over to a parking meter, I lock it up and stride to the door. I pause, taking a breath to steady myself. There's worse that could happen. There's always worse. When I go inside I'm nearly overwhelmed by the multitude of activity taking place all around me. I should hardly be amazed, noting that my reason for setting foot in this place has the city in a bit of an uproar.

Oh, I'm witty. As if that isn't the understatement of the century.

Personnel scramble over the available floor space, passing files, escorting people in and out of the building, talking to one another in rapid, strained tones. Yet despite this there is a very tangible hush over the scene. The thing that really takes me aback is that everyone is in formal dress, everyone is in uniform. Granted, I'm probably not the best at observing the daily habits of the law enforcement within Gotham City, but this seems vaguely over the top. Sergeants in full regalia, detectives wearing dress suits under their overcoats. A voice to my left startles me.

"You got somewhere you need to be, sweetheart?"

An older, stocky man looks at me. His is the gaze of someone who hasn't been anything close to amused in the last decade, his cheeks and nose patched with red. I nearly leap out of my skin. Putting a hand to my chest to steady myself, my backpack hanging casually off a shoulder, I take a breath. "Actually, I was hoping to speak to someone." I pause, searching my fog-wreathed brain for the right words. "I- I think I might need-"

He points to a desk to the right of the lobby, effectively cutting me off. "Information, kid. They'll process you."

As he struts off I mutter an exasperated, "Thanks" in his direction. Wading my way through the people milling about the building, I approach the desk and stop short. There's a woman there, leaning her chair back to speak with a co-worker, but it's not her non-descript brown blouse that's caught my attention. I'm looking down at the newspaper she has on her desk. The front page alone makes me want to cringe. This is what I get for not having picked up the evening edition last night. This is what I get for falling out of the routine. The color drains from my face.

_The Gotham Times_ reports that there's to be a funeral parade this afternoon for the officers of the law killed by—oh Jesus Christ. The tally thus far reads a court judge, two cops and the fucking Police Commissioner. The longer I read the more I can feel the walls closing in. I've walked into a deathtrap. There is no safety. No wonder these poor bastards are so somber, how can they even hope to protect the people of the city if they can't even protect themselves?

The woman at the desk turns to face me, realizing her position. I can feel the two cards in my back pocket like dual cattle brands at my hind. "Can I help you?" To her credit, she looks almost accommodating.

I falter. "No, no. Actually, I've made a mistake. I'm sorry. It's—" I look around, trying to find a clock, locating it on the far wall. "It's ten-thirty. I have to go. I'm sorry." I clear the room and the door in record time, unlocking my bike and throwing my leg up over it. There's no help to be found here. No hope, not a hope in the world. My pulse is racing and I haven't even begun to pedal yet. And when I do, I'm off like a shot.

Half way to nowhere I have to stop. I'm breathing so erratically that I can barely steer in a straight line. I almost hit a woman with her groceries three blocks back. Pulling up onto the sidewalk, I skid to a halt in front of a rather extravagant looking hotel and teeter off my bicycle on shaking limbs. I can almost hear my knees knocking together. And I'm making a bit of a scene. I know it, and it's terrible. The bell-hops are looking at me like I'm the living dead, and I know I look like it, but I can't be bothered to care anymore. I just stand there, on the curb of valet parking, and I shake. My breath comes in jagged wheezes and gasps.

One of the bell-hops, he can't be older than thirty, runs inside. He returns a moment later with a bottle of Perrier. They think I'm dehydrated. When he approaches me, I start to laugh and choke on it. "Easy now," he says, opening the bottle and holding it to my lips. "Easy, miss. Just take a sip. And deep breaths. There we go."

This little bit of comfort should mean so much more to me than it does right now. This act of kindness should not go unnoticed while I'm clutching the handlebars of my bike with clammy palms and white knuckles. And all I can think, as I take sips of the over-priced bubbling water, is that this shouldn't be happening. This should not be happening. Not to me. After a few minutes, the bell-hop gets me to sit down and asks me if I require medical attention. I shake my head. I want to look him in the eye. I want to tell him, "Sorry man, there's nothing for this. This is terminal. I'm in it for the long haul."

Imagined melodrama aside, I stay and catch my breath. If just for the moment.

--

A/N: Thanks for all the feedback you guys. Reviews really do help put things in perspective. As stated previously, it's very much appreciated. Things are starting to pick up in _HttT_, and I hope you're all enjoying the ride. It's going to get pretty rough soon, and I'm looking forward to it. Please note that the rating will likely change in a few chapters. Thanks again, as always, it's a pleasure.


	5. Little Man being Erased

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing affiliated with DC/Warner Bros. Or Radiohead, for that matter. I have no intention whatsoever to sell/and or make any money off of this.

--

Chapter 5. "Go to Sleep (Little Man Being Erased)".

"_Something for the rag and bone man.  
'Over my dead body'.  
Something big is gonna happen.  
'Over my dead body'._

_Someone's son or someone's daughter.  
'Over my dead body'.  
This is how I end up getting sucked in.  
'Over my dead body'."_

The air is thick with the scent of garlic, the operatic warbles of Puccini. It's going on nine o'clock and the dining room, usually brimming at this hour, is modestly populated. Here's to you, District Attorney Harvey Dent; to you and all your hard work. Yet all is far from being lost. The routine continues on. This night, like so many others at _La Dolce Vita_, passes on into cheesy Neo-Italian history with surprising aplomb. Fettucini is doled out like so much candy to trick-or-treaters, bruchetta decorates each table like the angel on the family Christmas tree. I'm passing out baskets full of bread sticks like torches to the angry mob. Misanthropy creeps in for but a few brief seconds before table nine motions for my attention. I smooth my hands down my black apron. Well, my lovely guests, is it time to stuff our faces with some cannoli or tiramisu this evening? And please, allow me to clear the vestiges of what was once a heaping mountain of food. You fat bastards.

I've begun to discover that pretending to be completely attentive and warm to absolute strangers in my present frame of mind is an impossible feat. And to think I'd once been a near master of it. Tony has already given me a few looks to convey that not all is well in our lovely little restaurant and I can only imagine the verbal shitstorm I'll have to face when we finally close up for the night. Heaving my load of heavy platters and cutlery, I deposit it into the basin for the busboys to cart away. I retrieve two cannoli from our display case at the front. Placed on two of our signature plates, sprinkled with a dash of powdered sugar, they look magnificent. My mouth waters. I haven't eaten a thing all day.

The corners of my mouth pull upward as I approach the table again. I try not to think of just who I look like right now. Concentration is everything.

Another hour passes by. I carry tray after tray of hot food. I take drink orders. I make small conversation and give recommendations. To every patron I bid a fond farewell, to every customer I belay my thanks. I tell them that we hope to see them soon. I spew lies and filth. My hackles have been standing since my wasted trip to the Gotham Police Department and I'm beginning to wonder if they will ever lower. Or if I'll live long enough to see it happen. At ten-fifteen in the evening, the last couple pass through the door, and Tony closes it politely behind them. I busy myself cleaning up their table, my back to him in the vain hope I might be spared at least the heat of his gaze as he speaks to me. My skull throbs.

"Doin' all right, Caroline?" The tone is one of strained introduction. I can almost hear his arms crossing. I load the plates into my smaller ones.

"Fine, Tony. How about yourself?"

The locks in the door turn heavily, the venetian blinds rustling down to rest for the night. "To be honest, I'd be a lot better if I had a waitress who could do her job."

I wince, halfway to the busing station. My fuse shortens. My goodness, we're certainly going for low blows this evening. I straighten myself. "Tony, that's incredibly unfair. Did you see anyone unhappy tonight? Did anyone complain? Aside from the lack of business, I'd say it all went pretty-"

He cuts me off, shifting his weight past me and into the kitchen. Tony tosses words over his shoulder in a cruel and haphazard fashion. He's fantastic at it, traveling long past the state of practice and into the art of perfection. "Save it, Caroline. You were slacking. I'd call tonight half-assed at best from you, and that's unacceptable."

It's so hard not to throw the dishes down with a clatter. Even harder still not to throw the silverware after him. I swallow what little is left of my pride. "I'm sorry, Tony."

He comes back in, pushing the double doors of the kitchen aside in his wake. His brow glistens and he stares down at me from above the severity of his nose. "I expect better from you Caroline. You're the youth of this place. I know you can do better than this. Whatever it is you've got under your skin, you need to get it out. I won't have it in my restaurant."

My blue eyes look down to the carpet at his feet, the hopelessness of recent events threatening to overwhelm me entirely. It takes all my willpower just to _breathe_ evenly. I look up at Tony, and I wonder how he fails to see that there is something desperately wrong with me. The dark circles, the nerves, the poor performance; how doesn't this just run down the proverbial street, screaming and naked, that I'm not all right? I've worked here for so long, the notion that he might not care, not even in the slightest, takes me aback. His expression holds steady and I falter. I need to be finish closing the restaurant. I need a cigarette. I need to sleep and I need a gun. The order within which these requests are fulfilled is inconsequential. "Certainly. You have my apology."

Tony and I make it our collective priority to speak as little as possible the rest of the evening. In fact, I speak very little to anyone as I finish my side work, leveling off salt shakers and carrying in stacks of plates and glasses to the little side station. As I finish my server report, handing over what I owe to Tony without so much as a glance, I murmur a few good-nights to the cooks and shut myself in the employee bathroom. The changing of uniforms is fast and mechanical, shucking the professional for the private individual. The white button-down blouse is exchanged for my still-damp, black wife-beater, the black dress pants for the worn gray jeans. I slip into more comfortable shoes, the white loafers looking as though they'd be more at home on the bird-like feet of an elderly woman, or buried somewhere in the back of a consignment shop. I peer into the mirror and hiss quietly to myself in disapproval. I am gray-scale personified. Cheeks gaunt, limp strands of hair hanging half-heartedly to frame my face; I look so wretched. My eyes stare into themselves forever, reflected into dull infinity. With a sign of disgust, I heft my backpack and maneuver my bike over to the door. I turn the light off and leave through the back entryway.

Gotham by night is a relative experience. This evening the cloudless sky is awash in half-moon apathy, quiet for all intents and purposes. Deceptively so, one might venture. A cool breeze blows and the people of this fair city wisely keep to themselves. I pedal down the street and make a right at the intersection, keeping close to the curb, out of the way of traffic. My muscles take over and I settle into the mechanics of the ride, allowing my mind to wander as I speed down my nightly path. There is a catharsis that comes with such mindless activity, a detachment that flows into an almost trance-like state in which one is minutely aware of the world surrounding them. The sensations around me begin to numb. I race down the populated streets to something decidedly less so. The shadier part of town, though I've learned to navigate it well. Street lamps flicker and sputter like a naked flame left carelessly on a windowsill. More often than not, they simply go dark or cease to work at all. I alternate between squinting and widening my eyes so that I might see.

And yet what is life, if not wholly unexpected.

I start to feel myself lose momentum as I bike up a gradual incline about five blocks away from work. My trance begins to slip. Where this hill would normally be an inconvenience at best, I feel my attempts push me only a few sluggish paces forward. The spell broken entirely, I stop and dismount. I pull my bike up onto the curb, walking it over to a deli storefront. Lights from the neon signs bathe the sidewalk in red and orange, the eternal sunset of the urban sprawl. My heart sinks the moment I kneel down, probing my back tire with an outstretched finger. The rubber sags at my touch. I curse and I spit with frustration. There's no need to take off my backpack to see if I've got any sealant. I'd lost my last tube weeks ago, stupidly procrastinating against all rational each time I rode past the local bike shop. Six dollars could have saved me this. I groan and lean my head against the cool steel of the frame. My limbs are shapeless blocks of clay.

After a few moments of searching, I find the puncture. A thumbtack rests inside the treads, bent at an odd and ugly angle. I can't even begin to fathom at how long it might have been there, shaken into something destructive at a whim. I still have five miles to go before I get home. Five miles on foot, walking a useless bicycle through a part of Gotham that I don't find even remotely welcoming, is not a prospect I'm sure I can entertain right now. Not after today. I stand, shaking my head briskly, arousing what I can only hope is the semblance of sense and calling it to action. At this point, I'm so overwhelmed by my paranoia and rampant fatigue that I can barely form thoughts. Cars pass by sporadically on the street. Against the better judgment of my finances, I capitulate in a way only city folk can. Walking my bicycle away from the deli, I stick my arm out over the street in that universal gesture. I'm simply too exhausted to yell "Taxi!"

Lights leap at me out of the gloom. The car arrives Hollywood fast, eagerly breaking to a halt in front of me. I take an obligatory step back. There's a faint pop that sounds to my left and I blink in surprise as the top of the trunk rises. Quickly I arrange all the scattered pieces. I walk my bike over to the rear of the vehicle. Detaching the front wheel, I slide the frame into the roomy expanse with little to no trouble. The tire goes in atop it and I close the top soundly. I'm vaguely irritated that the driver failed to get out of the cab to help me, but I'm so hazy that even this inward curse is half-hearted and insubstantial. Opening the back-right door of the taxi, I place my backpack on the far seat and lower myself onto the worn leather. I can barely keep my eyes open; my grip feels unintentionally lax as I shut the door behind me.

"Twenty-third and Roland, please." I try to speak the words clearly as I lean back into the seat, strapping myself in. The front seats seem miles away. I barely heard myself, but the driver seems to have translated it regardless. I peer out my window and watch familiarity fly by at a blur. My eyes close for a moment. We screech to a halt at a stoplight. I startle and snap myself awake, vaguely disturbed that the lull of the engine and the warmth of the taxi has me at such a disadvantage.

I need to stay awake. I lean forward slightly. "Would you mind turning on the radio? I'm sorry; it's been a long day. I'd really appreciate it." I see the driver's gloved hand reach toward the dial, and he flips it into motion. For a moment I'm confused. Static over-rides the speakers, but after a few vicious hits with the butt of his fist, the driver gets it sorted. We've come in the middle of a song on Gotham's oldies station, and there's an instant where I forget what it is.

His head nodding in time, cloaked beneath an old cabbie hat, the driver weaves in and out of traffic abruptly. My grip returns and I hold the door by its ashtray. I would look at his face, were it not for the fact that his rearview mirror seems to have turned itself backward. The song changes and something jolts within me, something ancient and small. Young, despite itself. I find myself within a world of déjà-vu as Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" blares to life. I listen for a few bars before I hear the driver speak.

"Now isn't _that_ a nice coincidence," he draws the syllables out of the last word exaggeratedly. "Isn't that _your_ name?"

For a brief second, ignorance reigns supreme. Surely I must have introduced myself in my absent-minded state and forgotten. Perhaps he's a regular at the restaurant. Or a classmate. The skin on my arms begins to prickle, and a sick, nervous feeling creeps into my stomach. "Excuse me?"

"What's _wrong,_ sweethear_t?_ Forgotten me already? I'm _crushed!"_ His gloved hand reaches for the volume dial and he cranks it. Neil Diamond wails my name and oh, the good times really never did seem so good. I start to shake. My muscles tense and my breath comes in and out in quiet, shallow gasps.

A leather-clad hand moves up to the rearview and adjusts it, turning and tilting. Horrified, I sit transfixed, watching the reflections move into focus. I claw at my seatbelt buckle with trembling fingers, my other hand prying for the handle on the door. Satisfied, he takes his hand away from the mirror and—oh god, oh god, oh god—I become a rabbit in the headlights. His smile stretches to unholy lengths. He laughs.

_"Hi_ sweet_y_. Did ya' _miss_ me?"

I rip off my seatbelt and frantically begin to tug at the door handle, to push at the window controls. When nothing responds, I throw myself down along the length of the seat, kicking at the glass with my heel. Any previous fight-or-flight simulations haven't prepared me for this. Nothing could have prepared me for this. And then I am still, save for the tremors. Still like death and marble. Abrupt. Wide-eyed, I stare at the metal held mere inches from my face. I can't even breathe.

"Now, _Caroline,"_ the gun tells me, "I don't want this to be difficult. I, ha, I _like_ you. I really do." I can feel the car lurching this way and that, but all I can see for miles and miles is the gun pointing at my face. I grip the leather seats so tightly I lose feeling in my fingers. Sweat gathers in my palms. I think I'm going to be sick. "Why don't you, _ha ha,_ just, sit back and _relax?_ Loosen up a little. _Smile."_

He pulls the hammer back. My mind runs wild and naked through the streets.

The family that I haven't spoken to in weeks will undoubtedly see my final moments on the nine o'clock news. My story, tragic and awful, will gain national coverage. I will be the subject of talk-show hosts for weeks to come. I will be a victim. One of Gotham's lost souls. Because we all know how this guy does things. He loves the spotlight. He revels in his work. My tortured screams and agonized pleadings will be nothing more than the reactions of an artful and highly responsive prop. Once used, I will disintegrate piece by piece on film. Citizen erased. The world will be watching.

This will be public humiliation at it's finest.

The car begins to slow. It comes to a halt and he kills the engine. My eyes bore into the cold steel. The Joker turns himself around in the seat, kneeling on the leather to face me. Of course he wasn't wearing a seatbelt. His face, while devoid of makeup, is nothing short of disturbing. Ragged scar tissue taut, lips pulled back and stretched tight. Feral. He motions me to sit up and I comply in a scramble of arms and legs and dizzy sensations. Swallowing tightly, I hold my body rigid against the back seat. I will myself to meet his gaze. I swallow again at my gall, my dry throat closing around air and heat. He leans in toward me, pressing the muzzle of the gun into my chest. Our eyes lock.

_"Smile."_

My eyes moisten and my jaw trembles. Soft flesh jerks and twists erratically. Forced, my cheeks pull and my lips twitch.

He nods thoughtfully, his brow wrinkling and his eyes glinting in the dim. "Now _that_'s more like i_t_." There isn't even time to scream before the light goes out.

--

A/N: My thanks to Lunachick35 for the helpful feedback on the Joker's speech patterns. Hopefully I've rectified myself a bit this time around. FYI: Chapters from hereon in will be rated Mature, and the rating change of Teen to Mature is effective immediately upon the next update, so be forewarned. We're digging into the marrow now. Thanks again to all of you for reading and reviewing, and please don't hesitate to continue to do so. It is, as always, an absolute pleasure, and more than appreciated.


	6. The Sky is Falling In

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one related to DC or various film companies. Hooray.

Chapter 6- "Where I End and You Begin (The Sky is Falling In)".

"_Like parting the waves.  
Like a house falling in the sea._

_I will eat you all alive.  
I will eat you all alive.  
I will eat you all alive.  
I will eat you all alive."_

I awaken in a dimly lit room. Slumped in a corner, curled upon frigid concrete, I awaken and sputter into consciousness. It is no small wonder that something about this scenario fills me with a dread. My hands are bound, wrists locked tight with plastic zip ties. My fingers tingle with the pins and needles of discomfiture. There are no windows. My head aches fiercely. It takes me a few befuddled moments, each filled with mounting anxiety and confusion, before I recall the events that lead to my captivity.

I am, in a sense—and for all intents and purposes—Caroline Burke. I am also completely fucked. My head throbs and I bite back a cry of horror.

It takes me the better part of a minute to arrange myself in an up-right, seated position. My temples pulse with dehydration and a damp chill seems to have taken up residence in my marrow. I look down to my shoes. I hug my knees to my chest. My jeans, they taper off and taper off, revealing a shock of white ankle. I am a victim of cruel and untimely circumstance. I have somehow and inexplicably gone astray. The push-pin in the tire, the taxi; these supposedly haphazard events were all part of a master plan. I know this now. I am nothing but a cog in the greater machine of lunacy. But to what end? What on earth do I have to do with any of this madness?

I peek up at the single bulb illuminating the room and drop my gaze again, quickly. Other than my notable and general discomforts, there is no way of telling just how long I've been here. This thought, much like the lone light bulb hanging heavy in the center of the ceiling, disturbs me. I'm going to think of this as though it happened last night, because I cannot rationalize it any other way and keep a semblance of calm. I need the continuity, the reassurance. Sense dictates that I should be bursting into hysterics right now. I should be pulling my hair out by the root and throwing myself into the black, steel door across the room. I should be beating the metal with my fists. I should be begging. For help. For release. However futile. And allow me to be blunt, futile is a gross understatement. Deep in my heart of hearts, the notion that I might not be breathing after today is growing. Yet I feel bottled despite myself, contained by means that are not my own. This coping mechanism puzzles me. How long until the cork pops free, and by what means? By who's hand?

Last night. I touch the side of my head and feel an egg-sized lump of something awful. It stings and aches hideously. I hiss and retract my hands. I can't seem to get my teeth to stop chattering. The stale air in here isn't horribly cold, but the chill of the floor is parasitic. I'm trying to raise myself to my knees, to get myself up on my feet so that I'll at least be able to pace myself into warmth. I mean. Really. What else do I have to do. What else could I possibly do given my present circumstances. Other than burst into tears.

I stand and the light hangs heavy above me.

I pace the concrete room. Five steps across, six steps down. I pace and I pace and I pace. The more I remember the more I pace, until I'm running laps around this god-forsaken kennel. Driving the demons out. Maybe if I just run like a hamster on a goddamn wheel, maybe there's just the slightest chance I could make my poor little heart burst open. And when I finally manage to stumble over my lovely vintage loafers, when I finally manage to trip myself into the middle of the room, I hear muffled noises. Something approaches from beyond the door. And there I am, in the middle of the floor, under that perilously weighty bulb. Huffing and puffing. Sweating and scrambling. I'm still doing just that when the door swings open a second later. I am, in a sense, Caroline Burke—the rabbit in your headlights.

A Man's silhouette stains the doorway an inky black. It's momentary, but the effect hits home. I gaze at the concrete floor. I stop breathing. I tense like a coil as I hear His footfalls approach me. I startle as the door slams shut. Suddenly my vision is filled with worn leather and argyle, lime green and plum. Pinstripe. A breath rattles in and out. Slowly, I move my eyes upward. I don't get past his vest.

He raises His hands in a pantomime of welcome. His lips part in a bloody rictus grin. This is the villain articles have been dedicated to in _The Gotham Times,_ the painted-horror that has ravaged the city. I've spent hours studying his face in morbid paranoia, and here it is, in the flesh. "Good_-morning_ bea_u_tiful! Did you, aha, sleep well?"

With my neck arched back, all my vitals exposed, I look up. To meet his eyes. My mind is fit to buckle under the pressure. I am forever trapped between a snarl and a whimper. Children around the world are raised so that they might never be afraid within the presence of a wild animal, for they can smell fear. Anything from bees to dogs to mountain lions will come after you the moment they smell that stink in your sweat. But I have read the newspapers. I have seen this face plastered on so many television screens. I have witnessed first hand the power and the brutality that He is capable of. I have lived with Him stalking me like a pack of wolves. I falter. I stare at the light bulb and breathe my silence.

The Joker tuts, standing there above me. He wags a finger. It would have been almost funny coming from anyone else. "Now, _now, _Little Missy. We seem to be having some, ah, some problems, yes—_problems_—remembering our manners."

His strike comes fast, a steel trap encased in smooth leather gloves gripping my jaw like a vice. I ball my fists and my blue eyes go all different kinds of big and wide. He drags me to my feet, and I scramble accordingly. I radiate terror. Tears fill my eyes. The honeycomb blue pattern on his shirt becomes clear to me in a belated sort of manner, and somewhere in the back of my mind, in a place that isn't completely saturated with panic, I wonder if that's the last thing I'll ever see. It's so ridiculous. So terribly fitting. Surrounded in black pancake makeup, his green eyes bore into mine and I swallow.

"Now, let's try that _again."_ The Joker's voice is a low growl. It leaves no room for argument. His features twist into a semblance of polite expectation. "Did you sleep well, my little dear?"

No. No I did not. For starters, it was cold. The concrete was uncomfortable. These zip ties are rubbing my wrists raw and I'm so scared and so thirsty and so hungry and I really really have to pee, so badly that I can barely see straight. And I don't want to die. Please, please, please. Don't kill me for I have not yet begun to live. "Fine. Thank you." I manage to squeeze the words out past my lips, my jaw still roughly man-handled.

_"Ex_-cellent!" He releases me and claps his hands together. I stumble back a pace. "That's fan_-tast_-ick. Because let me tell you something, girly," he leans in again conspiratorially. He smiles, like we're sharing an old, inside joke. Between friends. "We _really_ enjoy having you here."

I shake in the stale air. "I- well, that's, uh, thanks."

The man known throughout Gotham City only by alias begins to laugh. This man, The Joker, laughs like I'm _Robin Williams, Live at the Hollywood Bowl_ and doesn't stop. He hoots and he howls until he's doubled over, clutching his sides. And I'm just standing there. I haven't felt this out of place since my lower division speech class. I listen to the hysteria die down to a few more chuckles before he straightens and claps me on the back. I flinch.

"Wow, kiddo. That was, _aha, _that was really something. Here," he steps back toward the door and holds up an index finger. "You just sit tight, just like that, and I'll be _right back._ Don't move a muscle. I've got somethin' for ya."

When the door shuts I can still hear him laughing as he walks away. It's then that the magnitude of the situation comes to rest on my shoulders. They sag. The numb confusion that overwhelmed me only seconds ago gives way and my body begins to shake at its own accord. Long strands of dark brown hair fall around my face as I attempt to inhale and exhale normally. As I try hard, oh-so hard, not to hyperventilate.

This is Murphy's Law. This incomprehensible situation is right up there with someone's entire family dying in a plane crash, or getting hit by an oncoming bus in the cross walk. This is the absolute worst thing that could possibly happen. My mind and my heart are in a race to out-do one another as I frantically try to think. I am related to no one of importance. I hold no lofty positions within the social hierarchy of Gotham City. I have no family in law enforcement, much less within Gotham city limits. There is no feasible reason that I should be here. This shouldn't be happening. I should not be a target. This is absolute madness. He knows something I do not. He must.

I close my eyes. I wait.

The door creaks open and closes with a slam. I jump despite myself. My eyes snap open. With a bone-chilling twitter the Joker walks toward me, something rolled tightly in his right hand. A shiver courses its way up my spine when I realize what he holds.

"You know, Caroline. I like a smart girl. It's so," he pauses for a moment in front of me, gesticulating into the scant few inches of air between us, _"refreshing."_ His tongue snakes out, unconsciously tracing a scar for an instant before he continues. "When I saw you with the newspapers, well, goodness, you can't _imagine_ what it did to me. It like finding a kindred spirit! You see, _I, _I like to read the newspapers too. They're so... in_for_mative."

He begins to unfurl the paper. I watch, unable to tear my gaze away. My brow furrows as the words and images become clear. This particular journalistic endeavor is unlike anything I've ever witnessed. Today's morning edition of _The Gotham Times_ is held before my eyes, marred with scribbles and notations, words pasted into place, lines and lines of running commentary scrawled over dissatisfying headlines. Whole paragraphs are omitted in favor of something perverse and unsavory. Like a twisted English teacher's criticisms on a particularly poor essay, it's fairly dripping with ink. My eyes roam over the front page and I fight to keep a neutral expression. When I get about halfway down, my attempt curls in on itself and capsizes.

The Joker beams in understanding. "Ah, yes. You see, before I picked you up for our little _rendezvous,_ I killed a _police_ commissioner. I was hoping for the mayor but, you know, beggar's can't be choosers." He laughs, pleased with himself, this rampant sadism belaying a hilarity I fail to comprehend. I shift my weight from foot to foot and he stops abruptly licking his lips.

"Nervous?" The Joker chuckles, putting a hand on my shoulder. He leans his head down, so that our foreheads nearly bump. I stand ram-rod straight and barely manage a noncommittal shrug. I don't trust myself to speak, not now. He gives a dramatic sigh, letting the newspaper flutter to the floor. "Now, look Caroline—look at me—if I _really_ wanted to kill you, why, I could have done it hundreds of times already. And I _do_ mean that." A gloved hand comes up to pat my cheek in a mock-congeniality that makes me wince. "But you and I, we've _talked._ We've got a rapport. We know where we stand with one another. And I do owe you, for that book I ruined. Ha ha, aha, I _really_ do."

This catches me off guard. I'm mystified for a few moments before I recall my American Literature textbook, its pages sodden and muddy, forgotten and drying on my apartment floor. "Look," I manage to begin clearly, "It's all right. It was just a textbook. I'll be able to—"

He makes a face and shushes me, like an impatient mother to her child. "No no no. No. This isn't about the _book,_ Caroline. That's just a formality. No, _this_ is about _you."_ The Joker takes my chin in his hand again, turning my face this way and that as he speaks. Studying me. He stops suddenly, my head tilted to the left, my view of him off-center. A leather-clad glove moves over my bottom lip and I get the unearthly sensation that my stomach has been replaced by a lead weight. The Joker snaps my view ahead again. His eyes reflect a darkness of an origin I cannot possibly hope to comprehend.

"Look, I'm kind of at a loss here. I'm confused as to, as to why-" I stop awkwardly. The man's entire physical presentation is a well-crafted distraction. Despite my mounting anxiety, despite his dubious words and near-promises, I find myself captivated by the gruesome scar-tissue on his face. This transgression does not go unnoticed by my captor. My blood cools. I suddenly feel as though I've committed something irreparable. My previously subdued fear returns full force.

"You wanna know how I got my scars? Hm?" I shake my head. It continues on its own accord until he renews his grip, holding it steadily, mercilessly, fast at the chin. His tongue flicks out. "You're too polite. Don't worry about offending me, sweet cheeks, I'm _offering."_

A fiendish giggle clawed its way out of his throat as he pulled me flush against him, my gasp of shock unheeded. My arms, bound in zip-ties, are trapped between our bodies. We'd look like lovers in another setting, another time, under different circumstances. The thought rattles me. "When I was a kid, I never smiled. _Ever._ I was such a sullen boy. You see, I grew up in the foster care system. And, ha ha, we all know what happens to _those_ kids." His eyes search my face for a moment, drinking in the reactions I'm trying desperately to quell. "Well, one summer I'm living with this big ol' family. There's twelve of us, including the other foster kids, living in this spooky old house. There's lots of space to run and play, but I have to sleep with their son, James. James is sixteen. And _huge._ He's always getting on my case, asking why I look so down all the time. James says he knows something that'll make me feel better. Something that'll make me smile."

When his other hand begins to trace its way from my shoulder down my spine it's all I can do not to throw myself across the room. My heartbeat begins its crescendo, echoing between his words. I clench my teeth and my breath hisses out between them softly. The Joker shifts himself, speaking into my ear. "He starts touching me at night. Underneath my little stripped footie pajamas. And I never-" his hand grips my hip with bruising force- "smile. Ever."

I hear him lick his lips, feel the movements on my cheek. Overwhelmed with horror and disgust I shudder, unable to stop myself. His breath comes out against my neck, hot and damp. "One day, I'm just so _sick_ of hearing him complain that I grab some pruning sheers from the garden shed in the backyard and-" he pulls back, tonguing the scars on either side of his mouth, he brings his hand off my hip to create a flurry of scissoring motions. _"Snip snip snip!"_

The Joker cackles wildly, releasing me, and I stumble away, back into far wall. Terrified and disoriented by my captor's vile story, I grapple with myself. Laughter is replaced by an almost lazy smile as he moves toward me again. I pivot to the left and the right, looking for a way to get around him. Close as these quarters are, I'd be better suited in other positions. My attempts only cause him to tut-tut before he slams an open palm onto the wall beside my face.

I flinch. Words pour out of my mouth by the gallon. "None of this makes sense. Please, this is insane. Let me go. I don't even know where we are, I won't tell anyone. I'll leave town, I'll disappear, please, please-"

"Now _Caroline_, where would all of the fun in that be?" His face is impossibly close to mine. I'd give anything to sink into the cement, anything to move from this mounting horror staring me down. "You see. I've got pla_ns_ for you, Caroline. You're going to be a _part_ of something."

My words are so quiet I can barely hear them, so soft I don't even realize I've spoken them. "I don't want to be a part of it. Everything you do terrifies me."

Perhaps this is all like Jurassic Park. Like the dreadful Tyrannosaurus Rex, perhaps his vision is also based upon movement. I make myself perfectly still. A moment passes. The painted man gives me a sardonic look before rolling his eyes skyward. "Look, Caroline. I'm not really _asking _you-" The knife is out so quickly I barely have time to register it's presence. The gleam of sharpened metal catches my eye, moving down my cheek, toward my mouth. "This is sort of a _big deal."_ He glances from side to side out of the corner of his eyes. "You're in it for the long haul."

"Why?" It's the subtlest movement of my lips that allows this small escape. He slips the blade in between my lips. My knees are about to give out, my nerves are stretched so thin I can feel them beginning to fray under the pressure. Those eyes bore and burn into me so hard that I'm fairly expecting to catch fire. My psyche has been branded. No salve or ointment can cure these burns. The knife slips out from between my lips and traces its way up the other side of my face. I nearly faint with relief.

"When we first me_t_ I could see just how fake you were. All I had to do was look at you standing there, reading, smoking. Waiting. Trying so hard to be everything you're _expected_ to be. You were so _orderly."_ He chuckles, exposing yellow teeth in a jackal's grin. "I'm an agent of chaos, my dear. Helping _you_ is my life's wor_k_. You see. You're like an ongoing project for me, something to fill in the gaps. You're going to be _use_ful. I can tell." Another quick, giddy smile. "And I know there'll be some resistance at first," he lowers his eyes, tilting his head down until he's staring at me from beneath the lashes. "There always is. Tru_st_ me, you'll thank me for this later."

His hand flies from the wall; the knife keeps its territory, guarding it jealously. Freed from the concrete, the former makes its way over my body, drawing convulsions and white-knuckles between our forms. My wrists are raw and stinging from their ties and my futile efforts. This invasive gesture can only be a prelude. Everything within cognition tells me that this is but a taste of what is to come; a sheen of sweat covers me in its spontaneity. The Joker leers down at me and laughs. The sound is an air raid horn. It is alarm bells and terror clanging by at high speeds. I no longer have any question as to his motives. His hand reaches around and dips down into my back pocket as I choke back an evocation of humanity. Begging won't get me anywhere. Not here. Not now.

His laughter sputters out abruptly as he brings something between us, clasped between his gloved fingers. Two playing cards, each punctured with a pinhole at the top. They look almost innocent. These are the cards I'd meant to bring as evidence of my harassment to the police department. He becomes so still, looking at these, that I can scarcely breath. This is how frightened I am. Seconds hang in the air with an unbearable weight and the lightbulb sways slightly above.

It takes everything I have not to try and bolt here and now. Not that it would accomplish anything, not with this blade in my face. The cards stick up in front of him, obscuring him from view for an eternity before he lowers them. I note his reaction and my stomach drops clear out of me and into oblivion.

"Caroline. You _darling."_ It's like Christmas came early. The cat and the canary. Look at what Santa brought you. Those eyes that hold nothing human, waging war from on high. In all my life, I have never known such a despair. "Caroline. You can't _imagine_ just how much fun this is going to be for me."

--

A/N: Sorry this took so insufferably long to get out. Things got rather busy and sickly on this end. That said I do hope you've all enjoyed yourselves with this chapter, as I've quite enjoyed hacking it out. Feedback, as always, is appreciated. Thanks again!


	7. Your Time is Up

Disclaimers: I own nothing but Caroline. I have no affiliation with DC or Warner Brothers. Or Radiohead. Legality aside, none of this is for the faint of heart.

Chapter 7. "We Suck Young Blood (Your Time is Up)"

---

"_Are you sweet?  
Are you fresh?  
Are you strung up by the wrists?_

_We want the young blood._

_Are you fracturing?  
Are you torn at the seams?  
Would you do anything?  
Flea-bitten? Motheaten?_

_We suck young blood ."_

There are things that they never tell you about the clothes you buy. To assume that a majority of them are manufactured within sweat shops is not only wise, but it displays a startling lack of naivety. It belays a hint of the ruthless creature that lives within the Western ideal. A sleeveless shirt for instance—commonly known as a wife-beater—is usually crafted out of of cotton. Occasionally there is the exotic addition of spandex, which makes for quite an adventurous combination. The spandex is usually at a minimum, making up only one or two percent of the garment, serving to stretch the fabric as it's wearer desires. These efficient undershirts are created daily by the thousands. I wear them ritualistically for their comfort and convenience.

I can't even begin to tell you just how easily they slice apart. It is absolutely horrifying how the twin pieces slide just so off the arms. They pool graceful as ballerinas at the floor around my shoes. Still as a statue, I am granite erected in a puddle of fabric.

Like children playing in a grassy meadow—oh god, _home_—a blade traces its way up and down the valleys of my upper torso. Sprinting along the ridges of my collar bone, slowly descending into the valley of my clavicle and the sudden gorge of my cleavage. The lines aren't hard enough to be too much of a discomfort, I don't even feel half of them. This makes it all the more disconcerting when a thin line of blood wells sporadically in its wake.

Low and keening, I hear the first notes of a distant banshee wail begin in some far corner of my mind. I ache to return its call.

The light bulb in the center of the room remains eerily still throughout this transgression. A lone sentry standing watch on the Ides of March. I can't force myself to look up. And I cannot for the life of me bear to look down. The moment I do either the game is up and then I'll be put through the works without question. I stare at the purple lapels of His coat like they're the last two lifeboats on the _Lusitania._ The knife blade moves up my neck, along the underside of my jaw, until it comes to the point of my chin. Just the slightest bit of pressure is employed. Involuntary urges beg me to lift my head. Stubbornly, I ignore them.

The voice above me is deceptively soft. "Look at me, Caroline."

That crying and howling in my cranium is stealthily approaching. At this volume, I'd imagine her to be down the hall. I know that banshees are supposed to appear the evening before someone dies, so this should be right on the money. Granted, I have no idea what time it is, but all rational is telling me that there is no way I can possibly survive the next twenty-four hours. Especially with the unfortunate way things have picked up. I couldn't have imagined two useless playing cards could incite such a response.

The pressure increases, I feel the tip pierce the skin. He growls and his ferocity makes me cringe.

"Caroline. _Look at me."_

I move my eyes heavenward, where they remain just long enough to discern that my mulishness has passed its prime. I hear a faint _tsk-tsk _before my skull slams back into the concrete. The first blow is always the hardest. My ears ring and suddenly I can hear her, so close she must be right outside the door. A back-hand slap across my face and I fall to the right, stunned and disoriented on freshly bruised knees. The heels of my palms sting, newly scraped on the cold, rough floor. Mindlessly, I scramble toward the door. Darkness envelops the light from above.

"Ah ah ah, not so fas_t_." The Joker's long shadow descends upon me an instant before his body follows. With a chortle he tackles me onto the floor a hand's breath away from the hopeless freedom of cool steel hinges. "You're only making this _harder_ on yourself."

In my desperation, I rear backward, throwing my weight into it. Our skulls connect hard enough to warrant the cry that bursts forth from my lips. I drop down to my belly on the cold damp of the floor. My legs kick out behind me. Now I am the mule. I hope to connect with a ribcage, but I remain in longing as he catches me by my left ankle and twists. I barely manage to spin myself around fast enough to avoid a nasty sprain, losing a shoe in the process. My right leg kicks without thought or aim, narrowly missing the madman's face. I arch my body upward and back. I curse my bound hands, audacity in desperation fueling my every heartbeat. I can see blood running down his chin, the implication of his smile now a reality. In my frenzied terror I feel a surge of hope at having drawn first blood. Such are the feelings of those ignorant peasants at the turn of the tide, before realization dawns and doom approaches.

In an instant I find myself completely bested. Catching my other leg, he traps the two beneath him in a flurry of movement, straddling my thighs. "My goodness. You really--oof--_are_ a voracious learner. What are they teaching _you_ kids in school these days? Hm?"

I have nothing left. I beat at him with my forearms, my hands completely useless and zip-tied. These too are easily dealt with, grabbed at the wrist and stretched above me to the point of dislocation. Seconds away from the killing blow, I, Caroline Burke, lie defeated. The knife reappears and I bite my lip to keep my silence.

"I like my girls with a little bit of fight in them," he continues. "It shows a certain" he pauses thoughtfully for a moment, his body leaning over mine, "strength of spirit that we all too rarely encounter in the everyday hum-drum of life. It spices things up. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Please, I'm sorry-"

"Oh, don't start with that, you'll spoil it. You were doing so well!" He admonishes, shushing me with his weapon, pressing the blade to my lips. I am as silent as the grave. "Those cards, Caroline. Those cards changed _everything." _My eyes beg the question my mouth cannot. He continues. "Now, I'll admit it. I had my doubts. I wasn't sure you'd pick up on everything when I chose you. This was all after we'd met, of course," He adds. As though I needed any reminding. The day saving two dollars on a cup of coffee cost me my life. My sanity. The quick wistful expression on his face only masks the lunacy splayed across his mind like a dead pet in the center of the asphalt. "You ke_pt_ these. And you didn't turn them in, like I'd thought you would." The sudden intensity of his gaze strikes a fear in me that grips all my vitals. His eyes fix on mine, serpentine and deadly. He licks his lips, tongue seeking scar tissue. "You even went into the police station, Caroline. And you didn't do it. Something stopped you."

The blade of the knife, warmed by my flesh, lifts a hair's breadth off my lips. Now is a time for explanations. For shining lights in dark places. "I knew there was no hope." My voice is a moth-eaten dress and stale, dusty curtains waving in a summer's breeze. I swallow and carefully lick my lips. The tip of my tongue grazes the knife despite my cares. I watch him watch me. "I knew that there was nothing they could do to help."

During our struggle the mask he wears began to erode. Creases formed, illuminating flesh. At the corners of the eyes and mouth, at the lines in his forehead. That ghoulishly painted face observes me, the stitching of humanity peeking out through the cracks. He grins. The knife leaves my lips entirely and he leans over and onto me. He shifts his legs, the length of him now parallel to my prone, trapped form. Abruptly I am all too conscious of the fact that I am damn near half-naked. Suddenly the pressure around my wrists lessens. It then disappears altogether. Cool air bathes my raw flesh.

I have the awful feeling that the real mask is the face beneath the costume makeup.

He removes his gloves. His coat follows. There is a pause that lasts all of five seconds before we both bolt into action, shattering the newfound quiet of the room. Adrenaline grips me yet again as I struggle without thought to the blade, attempting to shove him off of me. I beat at him with my fists and jerk my body, trying to buck him. We are the cobra and the mongoose. The unruly horse and the cruel rider. The woman in my head shrieks her grief and the light flickers in and out of my view.

"Oh _yes!_ P_erf_ect! Fight harder, babycakes! Give me all you've got!" He croons, dissolving into hysterics. He has a good laugh. A long laugh. My movements appear to make little to no impact, no matter how hard I hit. Nothing fazes him. Moments pass before something in him finally snaps and he captures my wrists, slamming them down in their former position with one formerly gloved hand. Ignoring my gasp of pain--or perhaps thriving off of it--The Joker snarls down at me. _"No one_ can help you, Caroline. Not your boss, not your teachers, not the cops. This is _my_ city now."

Another thing that's rarely advertised about the clothing you buy is just how terribly generic synthetic fibers stand up to wear-and-tear. Most denim jeans now are hardly the durable commercial wonders they used to be. With the exception of Levi's, nearly all brands sport some sort of spandex or nylon additive. The theory behind this, much like the path to ruin and hellfire, is paved with good intentions. This does nothing to aid me when mine are shucked, with my last remaining shoe, from my person, and tossed across the room.

The woman in my head becomes eerily silent. Her last note rings in my ears until fading an instant later. Covered head to toe in silhouette and shadow--such a strange garment exchange--my loss dawns upon me.

The Joker leers down and my misery compounds itself. The green of his eyes threatens to drink me in and smother me. Should I survive. He shifts his weight and I gasp in realization at something entirely separate from my pain.

Now I run the gauntlet. Now we play for keeps. There is no turning back. He trails his knife down my sternum. He hums nonsense, children's songs. He bides his time. This is all about suspense. And then there's a special smile, just for me.

_"Pop goes the weasel."_ I feel the cool of the metal slide beneath the center of my bra. A flick of the wrist is all it takes for the black fabric to tear apart. This fabric too, my most trusted ally, my Brutus, takes its leave of me. Furious and horrified, I roll my head to the side. I try and fail to slow the speeding of my breaths. After all, this is neither the first nor the last indignity I'll be suffered to bear.

I hear a sigh above me, and my eyes seek it's source. There is no remorse to be found, not on that face. He leans in, chuckling into my neck. "Oops."

I feel his tongue dart out onto my skin, licking upward until he reaches that little hollow beneath my jawline. He sucks on the skin there, bruising it, letting it go with a loud smacking sound that rings out in the stillness. I am ripe fruit. My jaw clenches as I feel his head move lower, eyes straining away from that ragged mop of faded green. A brief touch of metal at my hip and the finality of it all sinks in below the surface. I don't even have to hear the cloth tear to know that it's gone. Fear and impatience shadow box one another until finally I manage to hiss something out.

"Get on with it already, will you?" My gall surprises me. Even my captor, glancing up at me beneath hooded eyes, appears bemused.

"Most of the other girls," his tongue darts out to lick scar tissue, "are a little less... _willing,_ at this point."

Defeat is no longer on the horizon, but staring me in the face. I speak as an empty shell. "This is acceptance. Nothing more."

The smirk that twists his lips is profound and triumphant. "Ah ha. _Now_ you're starting to get it." His hand moves out of view. I hear the foreboding sound metal teeth scraping down one another, separating and opening. Revealing things better left unsaid. With one hand, the other preoccupied with my wrists, I am arranged like a piece of showroom furniture. "I know it may not look like it. But you see, this really _is_ all for your own good, Caroline. You're a student. Consider this a, hm, a _learning experience."_

We'd look like lovers in another setting, another time, under different circumstances. He moves so conclusively. Unable to stop those initial sensations, I gasp involuntarily. His hand clamps with bruising force around my wrists, the other at my hip. I am horrified to note that he begins slowly. Tortuously so. The last threads of my dignity fray as nerves relay something that my mind has refused to acknowledge; he wants me to throw myself off the edge of the proverbial cliff, and he's only too happy to help. This has gone from shockingly personal to appallingly honest in a matter of moments. This is far more horrifying than the initial prospect.

"Stop."

"Oh, mmm," he growls into my ear, "it's _much_ too late for that."

The unearthly sensations that have started to build are magnified. Deft fingers probe nerve endings, tormenting me. When his mouth follows in turn, there is little I can do but shake and clamp my mouth shut. The moment I make a sound the jig is up. What terrifies me is just how badly I want to. I close my eyes and bite my lip until I taste blood.

"Carol_i_ne. Don't be such a spoil sport." The Joker's voice comes from somewhere above me. My eyes flutter open in a half-hearted glare. "Come on," he leans over my face. Sweat has started to further erode his mask, the man becoming all the more apparent. "Why so serious?" With a sinister grin he clamps his lips down onto mine. My self-loathing piques as the last shreds of my self control melt away. Overwhelmed by sensation, I moan into that kiss with an abandon previously beyond my person. My arms are released, only to ultimately betray me, running over the shirt on his back, gripping his shoulders.

It shouldn't feel like this, but it does. I can't stop it. The sounds. The words. The way my body now moves to meet his. The incredible sensations warping my mind. Logic shrieks it's loss as he bites down on my breast while my spine arcs into the violence. My legs have been possessed by forces unknown, wrapping around fiendish hips. The more rapid the motions, the more debauched my responses. Like a trained circus beast, I move about at his command for little more than peanuts. His persistence is surprising, and more than a little daunting the moment my lust-saturated brain manages to work out his aim. I try to change course, I try to stop myself. But it's not use, I could sooner stop a freight train with my bear hands than halt the final reactions of my body.

"Come on, girly. There's no stopping it now," he laughs brokenly through his own haze. "You. Are. _Mine."_

It hits me like nothing I've ever known and sends me spiraling off the edge of rationality. I feel two sharp pains on the skin of my ribs, below my left breast. I wish I could say that this counteracted the end result, though I'd be lying. Badly. His teeth go to my shoulder and he bites down hard enough to leave a wake of black and blue. The world goes still for another instant before he slumps down onto me, the knife slipping out of his hand to clatter onto the concrete of the floor. The magnitude of the occurrence begins to permeate my muddled brain.

As he peels himself off of me I feel the loss in ways that transcend mere physicality. Something cold and dead lies down and curls into my chest as he picks his coat off the floor. He readjusts his clothes and slips his hands back into their gloves. My own clothes, torn and useless, lie scattered about the floor. I don't move. I can't. Not even when he walks, chortling out the steel door. Not even to look at the letter of ownership I can feel burning on my flesh. I am a prisoner of my own broken morality. This void is irreparable.  
---

A/N: I'd apologize for the shocking nature of this chapter were none of you forewarned, but noting that you were, I hope it was decent regardless. As always, thank you kindly for reading, an reviewing, as feedback is always appreciated beyond mere mention. Have a Happy Halloween!


End file.
